Come Home
by xblurryfacex
Summary: Sherlock is dead. John doesn't believe it. Sherlock is alive. John doesn't know. No matter what he thinks, John still texts Sherlock. On a regular basis. The hardest part is not being able to respond. Johnlock


** fanfic!**

**I know I'm writing a sherlolly fanfic at the same time, but I saw this **_**awesome **_**picture on Pinterest that gave me a fantastic idea for a fanfic. So, if the artist of that picture somehow ends up reading this, I promise I did not intend to steal. Or whatever. **

**Enjoy! ~**

* * *

My phone buzzed in my hand. That was the third time this evening. I don't want to look – it's always unbearable to look. But my eyes still tear to the screen.

_Let's have dinner_

My stomach tightened into an even greater knot. Just a minute later, the fourth text came.

_Didn't work for Irene, either._

John knew I was receiving these texts. Or, he knew that someone was. I had been receiving messages from him ever since I left. Ever since I faked my death.

To everyone in London but a select few, I was dead.

To John Watson, I was a phantom. Hovering in his mind, half dead, half alive. The sensible part of him saying "You saw his body on the street, cold and broken. He's dead. Sherlock Holmes is dead."

But another part of him tugs and pushes and prods at him, "It's Sherlock Holmes. He has to be alive. He has to."

Thus, over the last year, I have received hundreds of texts. And every time, my thumbs slide over the keyboard, wanting so badly to respond. To say, "I'm here. I'm alive, I'm ok. I'm coming back."

But I can't respond. I have to wait. I have to finish my task. I have to lead him on.

_I'm getting myself a new phone, you know_

I waited.

_I don't think I'll put your number in_

I tightened my grip on the phone.

_Last chance, Sherlock._

I bit my cheek. I can't respond. I can't.

_I know you're alive. I know that you're somewhere out there, reading every single one of these._

"Dammit John," I whisper. "Just shut up. I can't take this anymore."

_Please_

Shut up.

_Please, Sherlock, for me_

Shut up.

_Alright._

It was quiet for a minute. Two minutes. I sat up from the hotel bed I was lying in, my fingers tangling into my hair. I want to scream, but I've already gotten complaints from residents below me. I don't need anymore extra fees.

I know that it's a bad idea. I've done it a thousand times. But I pick up my phone again and scroll all the way up to the top of John's texts.

_Sherlock?_

_Are you there?_

_I think you can read these._

_I know you can._

_You're not dead._

_I miss you._

_Come home._

I can't help myself. Here, in this hotel room in Tucson, Arizona, where I'm completely alone, I cry. Me, Sherlock Holmes, crying in a raggedy hotel room over John Watson. I can't read more. But I do anyway.

_221B is too quiet._

_Mrs. Hudson has had your bullet holes fixed up in the wall._

_Lestrade found a new case. Double homicide. We could use your help_

_I can't replace the only consulting detective._

I start to pace across the room, the sheet lying disheveled on the bed. I focus on anything but the phone in my hand. The lamp. The city lights through the window. The broken hook on the door.

_Molly sends her regards._

_She had some human thumbs set aside for you for when you come back._

_Please come back._

I threw my phone at the bed. No more. My heart was ripped up enough. Why did John have to do this? Why did he have to torment me-

Oh.

I was the one that was tormenting John.

I was the one that jumped off a building right in front of the man.

With a thud, I hit the wall and slid down to the floor. Burying my head in my hands, I focused on breathing. Breathing was good.

And then my phone buzzed.

Just one. The quietest sound. You wouldn't have heard it if you hadn't been listening.

With a shaking hand, I picked up the small device. Across the screen, the message was lit up.

_I love you. Come home._

* * *

John Watson lay in bed. His last text was sent. There was still no reply.

He sighed, turned off his phone, and tried to sleep. But sleep wouldn't come. His head was buzzing with thoughts.

At first, he knew, he believed that Sherlock Holmes was alive. He just waited for him to reply. To come walking through the door.

Now he wasn't so sure.

With a fierce brush of his hand, he wiped the tears from under his eyes and forced himself to go to sleep.

* * *

I replied.

That last text made me respond.

I knew it was his last, because the text was never delivered. He had turned off his phone. And wouldn't turn it on again.

But I still replied.

_Dinner sounds perfect._

* * *

The next day, John stood in the phone store, handing his old mobile to the employee and receiving his new one. He smiled at the man, watching him turn and go with the phone. He knew he shouldn't be upset. It was just a phone.

He reached the big glass doors and pushed one open. A voice called behind him.

"Mr. Watson? You have one text message, did you want to read it before we recycle the memory chip?"

"No, that's alright. Probably just from Mary. Thank you!"

And with that he walked from the shop.


End file.
